Читать книгу Closer Than You Think - Darren O’Sullivan - Страница 16

9th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

Wrapping my dressing gown tightly around me, I opened my back door and let the clean morning air flood in. I still felt weary, uneasy after my last trip outside. It had taken me three days to feel well enough to consider stepping out of the house. Three days of checking and double-checking locked windows and doors, unable to remove the keys from around my neck because I couldn’t bear the idea of not having my only means of escape on me. Three days of not being able to have a shower, even when Mum came over and sat on the landing. The sight of the water running made me feel sick and the noise dulled my hearing. Three days of sleeping on the sofa, jumping every time Baloo, who Mum decided should stay with me to keep me company, moved upstairs. The moment in the supermarket, as innocent and kind it was, rocked me to my core. I felt like a temporary prisoner in my own home.

I hadn’t felt like this in over a year, and although Mum told me to not be so hard on myself, that relapses happened, I couldn’t help but feel like a failure for the backwards step. She suggested I ring Dr Porter and tell her how I was feeling. But I didn’t see the point. I knew why I felt this way. Someone had recognised me. I had let myself believe the life in which I found myself labelled a ‘hero’ had passed me by. I thought I had completely vanished from people’s minds. I thought I had become a ghost, but I hadn’t. If two strangers could see me, who else could? The supermarket incident told me I wasn’t a no one as I had hoped, which meant I had to be someone. The woman who was out, unable to pay for her own shopping, she was a victim. I couldn’t bear to be her. For the past three days, I had placed myself under house arrest, crippled by paranoia. I couldn’t be her either, and thankfully I could feel her ebbing away, as I started to feel like myself again. Whoever that was.

After messaging Paul to say I couldn’t see him, he responded as he had the other times I had blown him out. He was supportive, understanding, telling me there was no rush and he would be around when I was ready, and his kindness made me feel guilty. With each passing week Paul and I were getting closer. We were learning the things about one another that other people might not know. And one day, I felt like I might just be able to tell him what happened ten years ago. More than the basic facts he already knew, more than the obvious truth that I had survived being murdered. I was sure it would shock him, even though a lot of the details were in public domain – a lot, but thankfully not all. Some were too horrific, even for the vultures of the world’s media.

I wasn’t worried that he’d run away when I told him. The problem was, I knew after I bared all, I would be the one to run away. In my mind it was inevitable. My attachment disorder meant I kept people at arm’s length. Everyone understood why, even me. But I didn’t like the term ‘attachment disorder’, it was too generic. I would have preferred if they used the term everyone was thinking but never said – I-think-everyone-is-going-to-try-to-kill-me disorder. A disorder that over the past year was showing signs of being managed – managed well, I thought, right until that moment in the supermarket.

I had realised over these past few days of being locked up at home, my mental health would always be complex. I would always be challenging to be around as I couldn’t predict when I would have a good day or a bad day. It wasn’t fair to expect or ask anyone to get caught up in my complicated little life. And with the fact I was flying back to Ireland in exactly a week, to visit the grave of my husband for the first time, I knew in coming weeks, maybe even months, my mental state would be even more delicate than usual. The supermarket taught me that although I sometimes thought I could be normal, it was only a delusion.

Paul didn’t need the shit I’d bring to a relationship. I would upset him, I would be too difficult, impossible to be around. I knew I had to call it off. I had messaged Penny, telling her I would cool things with Paul and she tried to talk me out of it. She told me I wasn’t baggage despite having it, and that to smooth over the ‘tricky’ few days I had, she should come over with her husband Robbie, so Paul and he could get to know one another. I knew what she was trying to do; she was trying to make my life normal. But really, was that ever going to happen? I politely declined, but promised I’d see her when I got back from Ireland.

Ireland. Just thinking about it made me feel sick.

I had enough to worry about without mistreating the only man I had let myself be close to since Owen died. I would miss Paul, but it was for the greater good. I’d wanted to call him the day after the supermarket and tell him I needed some space, but I wasn’t feeling strong enough to do anything but binge on Netflix box sets. Today, I was feeling much better about the world, and that meant I had to do what was right.

I never had identified what snapped me from my funks (my polite phrase for complete and utter meltdowns) but last night I managed to sleep a good six hours, and as soon as I awoke and saw the blue sky, I felt the need to be outside under it. So, I took the steps that only twenty-four hours ago had felt impossible, walked into my garden – away from the house, the place I could lock myself in – and wandered to the patio table where I sat and read most mornings. I aimed to convince myself it was just like any other morning, though I couldn’t stop my heart from racing. I tried to settle my hands, but needed to fidget with the keys around my neck. It helped, and stopped me from wanting to run back inside.

Sitting down on a cast iron chair, I leant my elbow on the round table and enjoyed the cold dew seeping through my dressing gown elbow. I pushed down the anxiety by watching small white clouds that smudged the deep blue of the sky. I tried to see animals in them, like I did as a child. Like I had with Owen in the days before we married. We would sit in the garden pointing out the things we saw in the clouds that floated past. Usually with a glass of wine. We did it so often the memories blurred into the same moment. All besides one. It was a mild autumn afternoon, the sun was moving towards the horizon, painting the sky the most beautiful colours. In the clouds I saw a bear, he saw a bird, one I couldn’t find, and then, as I was looking to see more animals, Owen dropped to one knee and asked me to be his wife.

I stopped myself thinking anymore. It was too painful.

I tried to see something in the clouds again, but I couldn’t. They were just clouds.

Disappointed, I took my phone from my pocket and held it in my hands, the black screen reflecting the sky above me. I needed to talk with Paul, but what I needed to say wasn’t something I could say over a text message. I didn’t want it to be misread or misinterpreted. He needed to hear my voice.

I dialled and held my breath. It rang and rang and just as it clicked into voicemail I hung up. Selfishly I was disappointed he was busy and didn’t answer. Then I realised, I didn’t even know the time. Looking at the clock on my phone I saw it was before six. He wasn’t busy; he was asleep. Putting my phone beside me I looked back to the sky and could feel the tension of making the call slowly travel from my chest into my stomach before leaving my body through my feet. I focused on the sound of the breeze and birdsong, the combination transporting me to a different time.

I let myself drift to where my mind wanted me to go, if only to keep me from thinking of Paul. The long summers in Ireland before my life changed. I used to wake at a reasonable time in those days, but still early enough to need to tiptoe out of the bedroom so as not to disturb Owen who was a light sleeper. I would get my running gear on and head out. The deserted lane where we lived near Newmarket was a perfect place to run. No traffic, no noise, besides the pigeons calling to one another. It was so quiet I would sometimes see a fox crossing the road or deer in the meadows who watched me run by. I used to run miles every day and if I thought about it, it was the thing I missed the most about my life before. Other than Owen.

Losing myself in the past, I didn’t notice my phone vibrating on the bench beside me until I scooped it up to see a missed call from Paul. Calling back, he picked up before the first ring finished.

‘Hey,’ he said quietly.

‘Hey.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Hi, Paul, yes I’m fine, sorry, I didn’t realise it was so early.’

‘No, it’s OK, as long as you’re OK.’

‘I’m feeling much better.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

The line went quiet and I could feel the nervous energy between us building. The silence awoke tiny white butterflies in my stomach. I knew he wasn’t speaking because he was waiting for me to lead.

‘Listen, Paul—’

‘You don’t have to say sorry for anything, Claire.’

‘But I feel like…’

‘I’m not upset or annoyed.’

‘But this thing…’

‘… is whatever it will be.’

‘Will you let me finish?’ I said, more forcefully than I intended, the butterflies in my stomach growing bigger by the second.

‘Yes. Sorry, I’m talking over you. Carry on.’

I curled my toes on my left foot in the grass and took a breath. ‘I don’t like that I mess you around. My life is… complicated, and although I manage better, I still have my days. It’s not fair to subject you to it.’

I knew what I should have said next, but I couldn’t form the words in my mouth, and that was selfish of me, weak of me. But then again, that’s what I was, wasn’t it? A weak woman.

‘Can I speak now?’ Paul whispered, snapping me back into breathing, though I was unaware I was holding it to begin with. ‘I know you think you should call it quits on us spending time together, thinking it would do me a favour, but it won’t. I know you have a complicated past, and because of that I know you have your off days… Christ, if anyone alive is allowed to have problems it’s…’

‘You think I have problems?’

‘No, problem is the wrong word.’

‘What, the right word is baggage?’

‘No.’

‘What is it then?’

‘I mean your anxiety issues.’

‘So, I have mental health problems?’

‘Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.’

‘It’s a good thing?’ I said, my voice raising, ready for an argument I didn’t want to have, but my attachment disorder would ensure I did have, anyway.

‘No, Claire, it’s just a thing. We all have something, and it’s OK to call it what it is.’

‘You have something too?’ I asked, wishing I could take it back instantly.

‘Yes, no, right now I don’t. But I used to. And I still carry it with me. Everyone has something. A trauma, a grief. A mistake,’ he said, after a beat. I could hear something heavy in his voice.

I wanted to know which one of those three was connected to him. Was he grieving too? Had he suffered something traumatic as well? Had he made a mistake, or done something wrong in his past, like me. It made sense that I felt a connection to him. We both had a shadow.

‘Claire?’

‘I’m not mental,’ I said, trying and failing to stop myself causing a fight and making it easier to walk away.

‘Of course you’re not. Claire, we both know, the entire world knows who you are. And how brave and strong you have been. You are so strong, even with all of the struggles you have had to face.’

Somehow his words floored me and the fight in me dissolved. No one except Dr Porter had ever said out loud it was OK to have mental health struggles. It was refreshing to hear it called what it was. And unusual. My mum referred to my health as my ‘quirks’. It was anything but quirky.

‘Paul, this isn’t fair.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Us, you know, getting close.’

‘Not fair on who?’

‘You.’

‘Maybe I should decide what is fair on me and what’s not. Yes, if I’m honest, it’s hard when you disappear…’

‘Then maybe—’

He cut me off, but this time it was OK. ‘But it’s only hard because I care about you. Claire, I’m old enough to know life is hard, and for you, harder than most, and that sometimes, you need to take a step back. I understand. It’s OK. I think you’re brilliant as you are.’

I felt tears begin press against the backs of my eyes and I let them out, forming a glaze over my vision, turning the bushes I was looking at in my garden into an underwater reef. As I blinked, a tear dropped onto my right foot, and with clear vision I looked at the matted pink scar tissue that ran from the place my toes used to be up my calf. As if knowing I needed comfort, Baloo had wandered out of the kitchen and rubbed his back against my leg. Reaching down I gently stroked the back of his neck.

‘Paul, I will never be uncomplicated.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you be who you need to be. We are all complicated, that’s just how it is.’

Another tear fell, and I had to move the phone away from my face, worried he would hear my jagged breathing as I fought to hold on. Baloo jumped onto my lap and stroking him calmed me. After a moment, I felt like I could speak again.

‘Paul, I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Then don’t. Don’t run away. Not yet. I know you don’t want to.’

‘I don’t,’ I replied honestly. ‘But I might one day.’

‘And we’ll deal with that then. As hard as it is, let’s try being in the moment. Just two adults, enjoying talking to each other.’ I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

‘And when I need to back away, like I have done this week—’

‘Then we’ll text, and I’ll get on with on with the rest of my life – work, my girls. I’ve got lots of other things to do, you know.’

I laughed and wiped my eyes. He was right, of course he was. He had his own life, an adult life. I let myself forget that, instead assuming that things between us might be how Owen and I were. But it wasn’t; Owen and I, we were both just kids when we met. No jobs, no children, no mortgages, no worries. No scars. Just each other. This was different. We understood things kids couldn’t, we knew things kids didn’t. I needed to try and remember that.

‘So, what are you doing this morning?’ he asked, his tone suggesting he was smiling, like I was.

‘If I’ve not completely balls’d it up, seeing you?’